


you can worship a god on your feet or on your knees

by insectoid_demigoddess



Series: godworship [1]
Category: Kamen Rider Gaim
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Post-Canon, a surprise birthday cake, ensemble survivors cast, its " / " but takatora is pining but its definitely not one-sided, mild abuse of godly powers (the extent of which are unknown to me anyway), takatora exchanges one set of unwieldy responsibilities for another and kouta (Sighs)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:35:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23427850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insectoid_demigoddess/pseuds/insectoid_demigoddess
Summary: the god of the would-be new world does not demand supplication from takatora.(that isn't to say that what he does request of him is easy, only that a bowed head and surrender are not inherently part of his wish)[post-ep 46; semi-compliant to: ep47 & subsequent movies]
Relationships: Kazuraba Kouta/Kureshima Takatora
Series: godworship [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1728640
Comments: 8
Kudos: 9





	you can worship a god on your feet or on your knees

  
  


the god of the would-be new world does not demand supplication from takatora. 

(that isn't to say that what he does request of him is easy, only that a bowed head and surrender are not inherently part of his wish)

he wears neither raiment nor armor when they speak. takatora, too, is without either, standing unencumbered by his physical state -- it's just another kindness that kazuraba carelessly gifts him with, one he hardly knows how to begin showing gratitude for.

(kazuraba takes care of that, too, tangentially. he has set takatora on an alternate path of salvation, and now he sets him on the long, arduous road of making reparations with himself, his brother, and the city.)

in the end, takatora gazes at the face of a god for only a handful of moments. the rest of the dream fades like frothing waves at the seashore, and what remains are mere impressions.

(takatora likes to think that there had been a smile somewhere, lost under the blinding sun but just visible enough in the way kazuraba stood, hands in his pockets and gaze far off. the gentle slope of his shoulders had made takatora believe that he'd forgotten the weight of the armor he once wore.)

afterwards, he opens his eyes, and gets to work.

  
  
  


the future takatora faces stands on a cairn of bones and the rotten fruits of dreams. it is not ideal, and there are no shortcuts or easy ways towards it. that's fine. takatora squares his shoulders and prepares himself for the weight of the world again--

\--but this time, he keeps his gaze forward. 

  
  
  


there are funerals with empty caskets. kazuraba akira attends those that she can, but does not make arrangements herself. thinks it presumptive, takatora assumes. he tells her about the first time he'd spoken with what her younger brother had become, and she laughs - through the tears - at the nerve of him, asking takatora for a favor.

"he needn't be polite with me," he says, making a god's apologies for him. kazuraba akira shakes her head, and smiles - still, through the tears - at him, "then neither should you, with us."

the kazuraba siblings call him by his first name unselfconsciously, and takatora responds in kind. 

(at least, he tries to, and akira bears with his attempts with familiar good humor.)

  
  
  


(the first time takatora calls kazuraba - _kouta_ \- by his first name is, incidentally, the first time they talk again, after takatora wakes up. takatora has counted the months in between under a perfunctory pretense, but he'd held close what scraps he could remember of the dream, enough to recognize the scenery when it appears again.

he learns, at that moment, how useless it is to put on airs in dreams, because the god who visits his sleep only exerts enough effort to solidify the _where_ in which they exist.

"all this," he says as he gestures at the stretch of sand and surf, "is from _you_. say, do you like beaches that much, takatora?"

the edge of the sea and the sky flickers as takatora thinks. he supposes he likes it as much as the next person. "do _you_ like beaches?" he asks, before adding, "your sister showed me pictures." and then, unbidden, "you were quite the rambunctious child, kouta."

the glare of the sun eases, and the smile on kouta's face is easier to see. still, takatora feels warmed, but for the intermittent breeze that prompts kouta to push his hair from his face now and then. 

the crashing of the waves quiets to mere murmurs as takatora listens to kouta recall trips to the beach from different summers. he himself has little to share, but kouta doesn't press for much - he seems content with learning takatora's preferred flavor of shaved ice, and if he burned easily or not at all. 

as they talk, takatora is aware, peripherally, of matching kouta's smile with one of his own.

when he wakes, his mouth remains curved, ever so slightly.) 

  
  
  


hideyasu jonouchi expresses his anger in a way takatora is unfamiliar with. 

(takatora calls it anger. oren neither agrees nor disagrees, but he stands with his protégé without question.)

he makes a dessert. there is no real pattern, no abuse of nuts in flavor or presentation, no absence of them if the recipe called for it. he serves it to takatora and then sits across him. he watches as takatora eats the dessert, which is never too big for one person to finish.

the desserts have no bearing on hase ryouji's memory. they are not his favorites, they are not things he hates. hase ryouji, dead, would have no opinion on the dishes his friend of once upon a time can now make with the approval of a trained patissier. not before, not now.

hideyasu jonouchi does not echo the screams of indignation from the city. he does not yell about how it should have been takatora who'd died. none of these things can encompass his anger, regret, and grief.

instead, these emotions simmer between every delicate layer of the dessert that sits heavy in takatora's stomach.

he says, "thank you for your patronage," when he sees takatora out the door.

only the phantom touch of a hand at the small of his back keeps takatora upright.

"until next time," takatora replies.

  
  
  


("what is he meant to learn from this example?"

"do _you_ know what you're teaching him?"

"i can hardly fathom it."

the sunlight is harsh, baring the lack of judgement on kouta's face in stark relief. he seems not to take offense at takatora's curt words. 

"that's why you keep trying," kouta says, smiling through the blur of takatora's encroaching wakefulness, "nothing's perfect the first time around.")

  
  
  


entirely by accident, takatora overhears an argument between mitsuzane and the de facto leader of the beat riders. zack, who stands with peko at his left, and across him, mitsuzane, rail-thin with bags under his eyes. 

(it strikes takatora mute with horror at the oddest moments: all that he and his brother held separate, shared, and exchanged.)

"what if they wanted the same thing, micchy? what if they want you to be happy again?" zack shifts on his crutch, righting himself, drawing strength from the movement that settles him on his feet. 

takatora is rooted in place, half a hallway and two flights of stairs between him and the strange tableau, but still he sees mitsuzane flinch, hears him speak in a dull, scratched monotone, "how would you know what they wanted?"

"how do _you_?!" bursts out from peko, which startles all of them, even peko himself, who twitches and takes a step back, towards the door.

still, despite the eyes on him, peko continues, "you fucked up, and nothing can change _that_. but _you_ changed, right?" he looks at zack, whose hand grasps peko's in an unconscious response, before turning back to mitsuzane, who looks pulled taut and fit to break or run.

"all of us had to change! so just, just change again!"

( _"you can transform yourself, takatora!"_ )

"...we're not asking the micchy from a couple of months ago to come to the dance stage." takatora sees their linked hands grip each other, a beat after the other. "we're asking today's micchy. and tomorrow's micchy."

maybe more words were exchanged. maybe mitsuzane gave a noncommittal answer that nevertheless satisfied zack and peko. maybe tonight would not be that night, despite what they'd said. takatora doesn't stay to find out.

but during breakfast, the next day, takatora tells mitsuzane that he'd be in town in the afternoon. 

"if there's somewhere you have to be--"

"there's no need, nii-san. i'll... get there myself."

  
  
  


(he's treated to his own dance show: kouta, barefoot on the sand and laughing as he tumbles and flips and holds a pose on one hand. he has never needed godly powers to dance.

takatora doesn't know if he should applaud at the end, when kouta sprawls on his back, heaving a satisfied sigh. sand settles all over the entirety of him, with finer grains on his palms, lining his fingers, and in between his toes. takatora feels compelled to wash his feet; just as strongly, he feels the urge to _not_ do so.

ineffectual, his hands clench around his knees instead.)

  
  
  


a cake arrives at the zawame city restoration bureau. it is an absurdly large sheet cake, bedecked with white fondant and decorated with green icing ("happy birthday, zawame city!"). most of the staff thank takatora for the thoughtful gift bearing the organization's modest logo. the others think it a publicity stunt in bad taste, but take slices anyway at the behest of his secretaries.

speaking of his secretaries - a pair of astute, discreet, and formidable recent graduates who he sometimes sees at charmant and drupers - they both know that no order had been placed for a 'gift' of this size. after fielding expressions of gratitude and dissent for him, they report, with an undercurrent of concern, how the delivery had been made by a white convertible and a woman who did not sign her name.

takatora assures them that there is no danger in the cake itself.

neither is there danger in the phone call that he takes, in the middle of watching the cake be whittled down to a quarter of its size.

takatora deals with what he can, in the ways that he can. the kureshima name still carries weight, but he's dealing with that, too.

he brings akira a slice of cake. "from a distant relative," he'd explained, and the pinched look on his face is apparently reason enough for her to have him sit down for tea.

  
  
  


(they make sandcastles together, with clumsy hands and a severely skewed misunderstanding of how sand and water mix. takatora likens it to a visual representation of a mental block.

"that," kouta agrees, "or we just don't have the right tools." he grabs at takatora's hands, his thumbs a point of heat against takatora's wrists and down his palm as he guides them into shape. 

on his nape and the back of his hands, the sun burns. as takatora holds himself steady, kouta piles in handfuls of sand before scrambling to his feet and wading into the surf.

the salt water stings when it sloshes over kouta's cupped hands and onto the mound of sand takatora holds in place. as it seeps into the structure, kouta pulls takatora's hands from their guarded form; his hands are warm despite the chill of the water.

together, they watch the structure. after a beat, it remains standing - which is enough for kouta to let out a triumphant whoop and a laugh that puts the glittering horizon of the dream-sea to shame.

takatora leans back on his hands as he watches him, his brightness that defeats the purpose of the sun in the dreamscape--)

  
  
  


there is nowhere for him to kneel, nowhere to pray. it would be - blasphemous, disrespectful, _futile_ \- to appropriate the mass memorial, the small shrine that akira concedes to after months and months, or even gaim's old haunt, now the home base of beat riders of every style and territory.

(kouta had not demanded for - his grief, his regret, his servitude. had neither held his sword against takatora's willing neck nor pushed him into the sea to die his second death a thousand times. the forgiveness of the new god who looked at and spoke with takatora as if _he_ was the burden between a savior and a failure was not entirely benevolent but it was - it _is_ \- more than takatora deserves.

 _and how does takatora repay him?_ )

takatora doesn't sleep for days. with his head in his hands, he strives not to think of crashing waves and a shining sun that never sets.

three days pass. when he sits at the table, mitsuzane favors him with a long, searching gaze before announcing that he looks like shit. he doesn't offer to take up the slack at the bureau, but he does call takatora's secretaries. 

mitsuzane will never work with him, and that is a weight off both their shoulders; instead, with his voice clear and direct, he asks for help rescheduling meetings and site visits. 

when he says "my brother isn't feeling well, so he needs to rest," takatora feels that phantom touch again, and almost bites through his lip to separate himself from the thought.

  
  
  


( _salt water stings his cracked lips as he presses them to the jutting bone of kouta's ankle. against his tongue, the sole and arch of kouta's feet is warm and smells like sand that has basked for so long under searing sunlight._

_"takatora,"_

_at the sound of his name, something wretched tears through takatora's lungs. somewhere, something hammers at a drum and eclipses the mystery of what is forcing itself up his throat and past his lips. he folds inwards and rests his forehead against kouta's knee, cradling his foot in his lap._

_fingers run through his hair. another breath shudders through him, and his pulse continues ringing in his ears. kouta doesn't say anything. how could he? this is only a dream, only a figment of takatora's imagination._

"i don't mind this, you know. you could have just asked -- ah, but that doesn't sound like you, now that i think about it... but, see, i don't mind doing this, not one bit. since you're stressing yourself out again..."

_he's made to lean back. his face is tilted upwards - the sun is in his eyes, bright and blinding. against his forehead is pressed a point of searing heat, yet he does not jerk away._

"you can rest here, takatora.")

  
  
  


in the morning, at an hour where sunlight still floods his room (but gently, like the curve of a smile in a dream), takatora wakes up. 

he has no memory of climbing into bed or falling asleep, but the state of his sheets assure him that these things happened, and in quick succession. despite his state of dress (creased, rumpled, his slacks dusted with fine sand from the knee down), and owing much to the full night's sleep he'd gotten, takatora finds himself worrying less about the imposition he'd doubtlessly be on the dry-cleaner's. 

when his feet meet the floor, takatora feels grounded - as if the last few days and the thoughts that plagued him were long past. 

resolved, takatora returns to work. 

(--unburdened, he looks forward to seeing kouta again)

**Author's Note:**

> firstly: thank you to my very kind betas who vibe checked this while i stitched more words at the hem: veggie pot and plagued-by-clowns. 
> 
> secondly:  
> \- themes: subservience, redemption, religious meanings attributed to washing feet, feet-kink in general (bc of who i am as a person)  
> \- me and my kids finished gaim literally days ago and after drunkenly (metaphorically) losing it on my tl and dms, i put these words down so i could see them somewhere other than my head.  
> \- plagued-by-clowns said "give the man a break (or a kitkat)" and i said "fresh outta kitkats, all i have is a god who'd happily dom him"  
> \- veggie pot said it tasted like burnt caramel and my heart felt really full
> 
> thirdly:  
> the last part of the full quote will be a different fic / part


End file.
